Golden Christmas (5 page)

But Vicky saw him, and in his own way, he saw
her. He was convinced he could help her as much as she could help
him.

He gripped the door as the car took a corner,
the hot air of the heater blasting him. They slowed, and soft
ground squelched beneath the tires.

"Here we are. The front gate is about five
feet from your door."

"Thanks." He took his cane with him as he got
out.

Vicky had the gate open by the time he
reached it. "If I remember rightly, the oil boiler is in a lean-to
at the back of the house." He brushed his cane against the bushes
planted around the building and pictured the layout.

For eighteen months, between finishing
college and joining the army, he'd been responsible for managing
the rental properties on the Rosemoor Hall estate for his father.
He tried to remember the model of boiler, but it had likely been
renewed since then.

"I see a small building adjoining the house,"
Vicky said. "It's stone built. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes. Can you open the door?"

Jonathan stood back and listened while Vicky
did as he asked. He passed her his cane and ran his fingers around
the front edges of the boiler, searching for the clip that held the
door closed. He pulled the front open.

"Okay, can you see a switch that has three
settings, hot water only, timed heating, and constant heating?"

"Yes." Vicky brushed his side as she
crouched. "It's set to constant heating."

"Okay. That's not the problem then."

Jonathan instructed her to check a number of
obvious things that might be wrong and see if there was oil in the
tank, but nothing helped. They pushed the reset button. The boiler
fired up for ten seconds, then died again.

A sigh hissed out between his lips. "Okay. I
admit defeat. We need a repairman to fix it."

"Never mind. Thanks for trying." Vicky tried
for a cheerful tone, but he could hear the disappointment in her
voice. Jonathan had developed a good ear for gauging people's
emotions.

"You can stay at Rosemoor Hall until the
boiler's fixed."

"Are you sure?"

"I insist." He injected a note of authority
in his tone, something he rarely needed to do these days.

Vicky was silent for what felt like ages, and
he wished he could see the expression on her face. "I don't want to
be a nuisance."

"You're not. There are four guest suites
along the corridor where I have my apartment. You can take one of
those. I promise they're warm, and you'll have some hot water."

Silence again. A car droned past on the road,
and the crowing call of a pheasant sounded behind them in the
field.

"Okay, then. That'll be nice. Thanks."

Jonathan released the breath he'd been
holding, excitement tingling along his nerves. He quickly
suppressed it. She wasn't moving in with him. She was only a
guest.

• • •

Vicky stopped her car on the area of gravel outside
Rosemoor Hall, near the back door that Jonathan used. She kept
telling herself that it wasn't a good idea to stay here. The whole
point of going away at Christmas was to be on her own.

Although the opportunity to stay in a
Jacobean house full of antiques and history was something she'd
have loved a few years ago. The strange fizzy feeling in her tummy
suggested she hadn't completely lost that interest—or maybe it was
because she'd be staying with Jonathan?

"Come on. Let's get you settled in," he
said.

He was already out of the car, feeling his
way around to the back to get her suitcase. He hauled the bag out
and held out his hand. "I'll carry the luggage if you carry my cane
and guide me."

"That sounds like a deal." Vicky smiled as
she slipped her fingers into his. She tested the feel of his cane
in her other hand, holding it out, imagining what it must be like
to depend on touch and sound to find her way around.

She led Jonathan to the back door and
released his hand while he dug the key from his pocket. He passed
it over and she unlocked the door. Once inside, she took the lead,
and he followed her up the stairs.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and
Honey trotted out, tail wagging, eager for their attention.
"Straight outside for a comfort break for you, my golden girl."

Jonathan set down Vicky's suitcase, and they
both took Honey for a walk around the lawn where Vicky had first
seen Jonathan throwing the ball.

When they went back inside, he touched his
door, then walked down the corridor, a hand on the wall until he
found the next door. He opened it and stood aside, gesturing for
her to go in first.

The room was beautiful, a combination of
antique furniture and modern comfort. A thick carpet covered the
floor, and the walls were papered in cream with a fine dark red
stripe. The cover and pillows on the high four-poster bed were a
matching burgundy.

"The bathroom's here." Jonathan opened a door
and felt along the wall for a light pull. "It's all newly done. My
brother, Marcus, uses Rosemoor Hall as a conference and wedding
venue, and he's refurbished all the bedrooms on this level. Can't
say I'm wild about the idea of strangers coming and going all the
time, but I'll get used to it."

The room was warm and luxurious, like
something out of a five-star hotel. "This is amazing. Thank you so
much."

On impulse, Vicky kissed Jonathan's cheek. He
put an arm around her, pulling her close. For a heady,
breath-stopping moment, their bodies pressed together as if they
belonged against each other.

"You're welcome. You helped me, and one good
turn deserves another. Would you like to come and have dinner
tonight? I don't have anything exciting planned, but I can throw
together some pasta and garlic bread."

"Sounds delicious."

Jonathan reached for her hand and gripped it
gently, his thumb circling over her skin, sending a tingling
sensation racing up her arm. "I'll see you later, then."

Tangled thoughts and feelings flooded Vicky
as Jonathan headed out the door, closing it softly behind him. For
four years she'd not felt anything but grief and regret; she
certainly hadn't been attracted to another man. Yet something about
Jonathan resonated with her.

She raked her fingers back through her hair
and noticed it felt stringy. With no hot water in the rental
property, she hadn't been able to wash properly. She was badly in
need of a long soak in a hot tub.

Vicky put her suitcase on a luggage rack,
took out a green-patterned tunic, black leggings, and clean
underwear, and ran herself a bath. Bottles of expensive toiletries
with gold lids stood in a row on a bathroom shelf. She selected
lavender-scented bubble bath, and a few minutes later relaxed in
the fragrant, foamy water and closed her eyes.

As always happened when her mind stilled,
thoughts of Colin and Josh rushed in to fill the void. Yet this
time the burning grief that usually filled her chest and made it
hurt to breathe had changed. The feeling was still there, but
somehow it had moved outside her now, more a sensation on the edge
of her mind than rooted in her body. Had sharing with Jonathan
loosened the hold the memories had on her?

Maybe she should have shared before. Her poor
mum had tried so hard to persuade Vicky to talk about how she felt.
Her mum had read up on grief and suggested all sorts of things to
help, but Vicky didn't want to be consoled and comforted. She
wanted to suffer for not being there when her two boys had needed
her.

Maybe today by confiding in Jonathan and
agreeing to buy her puppy, she'd taken her first steps towards
healing.

Jonathan
readied the kitchen to cook the pasta, getting everything he needed
out of the cupboards and lining them up on the counter. He washed
the lettuce and tomatoes, put them in a bowl, and returned it to
the fridge. He usually managed fine in his kitchen where everything
was in its place and he had special tools to help him, but today he
wanted to be extra prepared so he didn't mess up the first time he
cooked for Vicky.

He pressed the button on his watch and it
spoke the time. A moment later a knock sounded on his door,
followed by Vicky's voice. "I'm here. Okay to come in?"

"I'm in the kitchen." Jonathan gripped the
edge of the counter and turned, his chest tight with nerves. He
badly wanted to impress her. How had this woman become so important
to him so fast?

"Hi." The fragrance of lavender wafted into
the room with Vicky's soft footsteps.

"You smell good… Not that you don't always."
Why on earth did he say that?
He pressed his hand to the
scar on his forehead. He'd lost his sight, not his mind. He needed
to get a grip, he thought, clearing his throat. "Would you like a
glass of wine? I have white or red. The white is in the fridge, and
the red's in the rack in the corner. Choose whatever you like.
Glasses are on the table."

Her light footsteps moved across the room and
he turned back to his saucepan, grateful for something to do that
meant he wouldn't put his foot in his mouth again. He half filled
the pan with cold water at the sink before setting it on the
stove.

"I've chosen the pinot grigio. That should go
well with the tomato sauce. Shall I pour you a glass?"

"Yes, thanks."

When the water was bubbling audibly and
Jonathan could feel the steam, he added two cups of pasta and set
his kitchen timer. Then he opened the jar of tomato, mushroom, and
basil sauce and poured it into a bowl before putting it in the
microwave to heat.

"Sorry, this isn't exactly cordon-bleu
cookery."

"I'm sure it'll be wonderful. I love
pasta."

Jonathan laid the garlic baguette on a baking
tray and put it in the oven. The pasta timer would do for this as
well. They both needed to cook for roughly the same amount of
time.

"Here's your glass of wine."

Jonathan held up a hand, and Vicky gently
pressed the glass between his fingers. The brief feel of her skin
against his wiped his mind of everything else for a moment. He
tipped up his glass and chugged down his wine in a few swallows.
How could he have fought the Taliban in Afghanistan for months and
kept his mind steady and on the job, but one woman coming for
dinner had him near meltdown?

"Shall I tip the pack of grated parmesan in a
bowl for you?" Vicky asked.

"Yes. Thanks." Jonathan had pulled the cheese
from the fridge and then forgotten it.

A ceramic dish clunked on the granite
counter, then came the snip of scissors as Vicky opened the bag of
cheese.

"I'll put the parmesan on the table."

The timer beeped and Jonathan was busy then,
draining the pasta and distributing it between the bowls while
Vicky took the garlic bread from the oven and put it on a plate.
Jonathan ladled sauce over the pasta, hoping he'd divided it
equally, and put the bowls on the table.

The fragrance of garlic and tomato filled the
kitchen. "Smells delicious," Vicky said.

They sat down and ate, swapping stories about
their childhoods. As they talked, Jonathan relaxed. Vicky was so
easy to be with. She had a way of describing people and places that
created clear images in his head.

She described the seaside village in Somerset
where she'd grown up, a happy childhood of endless summer days on
the beach with her friends, dabbling in rock pools, and body
boarding in the surf.

"Sounds great. Are your parents still alive?"
The moment he asked, he wished he hadn't touched on the subject of
death, but he was curious why she wasn't with them at
Christmastime.

"Yes." Her one-word answer didn't invite
further questions, so he changed the subject and described his own
childhood.

He told her about his rather strict,
old-school parents, about life at boarding school, and about how
his brother, Marcus, and sister-in-law, Gabriela, now owned
Rosemoor Hall. He didn't dig into his own insecurities about his
place here, and his certainty that his sister-in-law didn't like
him and wanted him out of the house.

When they'd finished, he washed up and Vicky
dried. He had a dishwasher, but it never seemed worth turning on
for only a few dishes. Anyway, it was nice working with Vicky,
doing normal everyday things with another person for a change.

After they finished, they took their cups of
coffee through to the sitting room. Jonathan set his on the side
table and sat in the corner of the sofa, thrilled when the cushions
bounced as Vicky joined him.

He sipped his coffee as the soft tones of her
voice caressed his senses. She sounded divine and she smelled
divine. Most of the time he coped well with being blind, but
occasionally he wanted to see something or someone so badly, the
unfairness of his injury made him want to roar and put his fist
through a wall.

Now was certainly not the time for violence.
Instead, he sucked in a breath and blew out his frustration.

"Okay, Jon?"

He lifted a hand towards his scar, then
stopped himself and flattened his palm on his thigh. "It gets to me
sometimes. I want to see you, and it's driving me crazy that I
can't."

Her answering silence seemed to go on
forever, then she laid her hand on top of his where it lay on his
thigh, sending a flash of sensation up his leg.

"I'm five foot eight, about average weight
for my height, and I have dark brown hair and hazel eyes. My best
friend used to say my eyes looked green in the summer when we were
on the beach." She laughed. "That might have something to do with
our childhood mermaid fixation, though."

Jonathan's breath leaked out and he drew in
another, his attention focused on the pressure of her hand on the
back of his. It was warm and slender, her fingers nestled in the
gaps between his.